A Drabble in the Wastes
by m r s . w r i t i n g
Summary: A fluffy, romantic drabble between an original character (the lone wanderer) and Deacon. Will write more and variations upon request.


_Will write more Deacon stories, upon request, or for other characters. Reviews help you get a better story next time. Enjoy. -_ mw

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"You know, I used to go whole days without massacring things before I met you." Deacon peals off the top layer of his current costume and shoves it in his bag.

We're in an abandoned shack we were lucky enough to turn across during our trek, when the green waves of a radiation storm blocked our way.

I stare at him through the lantern's soft orange glow. "Yeah, says the farmer."

"Hey farming is an honest living."

I scoff playfully. "Deacon, you are the farthest thing from _honest_ there is."

He returns to me by the light and takes a seat on his sleeping bag. "Can't argue with you there." I watch the relief wash over him as he tucks his hands behind his head of thick black hair, his black aviators sill resting on his nose.

I'm not having as much luck getting comfortable. I still hold onto memories of sleeping in fully furnished homes, driving cars, and eating hot meals. The grungy, used pre-war sleeping bag underneath me doesn't even compare to the quality of living I'd grown accustom to, that I'd taken for granted my whole life. But it was what I had, and it was better than the cold ground. So I make the best of it, adjusting as well as I can. Finally finding a somewhat comfortable position, I'm surprised by a sharp point in my lower back.

I reach behind myself to investigate, and pull the familiar shape of a photograph from the back pocket of my vault suit. It was a photograph of Shaun, the Synthetic ten year old who learned to, and loved to, call me his mother.

"What's that?" Accompanied by his voice are the sounds of the wood floor's creaks as he moves closer to me to investigate. I can feel his warmth on my back.

"Oh," I hand him the photo. "Shaun fixed up that old camera he asked us to pick up for him."

His calloused dirty fingers pinch the fine metal rims of his glasses as he takes them off to better investigate the image. I hardly ever see his entire face. I lean onto my back, peering up at him as he balances his weight on one elbow, holding the photograph up to the light with his free hand. I wish he'd take his glasses off more often. His eyes are dark brown, the iris and pupil barely distinguishable from each other.

I never thought I'd get to experience my boy, but I also never thought he would get to experience the over flow of love he's been given since bringing him to Sanctuary. A child was exactly what we needed to lift spirits around the settlement, and I could see that Deacon – a hopeful father long ago – had taken a special liking to him.

"Who took the picture?"

"Piper."

"Oh."

Piper has taken primary care over Shaun while I carry out Minute Men business across the Commonwealth, Deacon at my side of course. Piper had been with me when I'd infiltrated the institute, and when I rescued Shaun from the final battles between factions. She was the logical choice, the only person both willing and capable of handling a confused, synthetically designed, loving child. For some reason, it bothered Deacon I didn't bring my son with us on our journeys.

"Wow, a working camera." He flipped the picture over, investigating it, baffled by its very presence. "He's one clever little guy." He hands me the photo back, but takes his time in departing to his side of the shack. I welcome the warmth and human contact. "He gets it from you." He doesn't put the aviators back on, but peers down at me. Now I know why he wears them. His gaze is so heavy. It makes my heart beat rapidly against the inside of my chest.

"Actually, he was built to be clever."

Deacon chuckles, shaking his head. "His intelligence was modeled closely after Father, according to Tinker Tom's findings in the Institute's database. And you were his mother, so he does get it from you."

The mention of Father...the tyrannical leader of the institute, my severely mislead son, leaves a dark feeling in my stomach. The moment I met him, the moment I found him, I hated him. I killed so many people, and did so many things only to lose him anyway. And even if I'd been able to get through to him, the universe wouldn't have let me have him. The cancer would have taken him. All that science in one building, the most advanced technology on the planet, and no cure for cancer. It was a sick joke on so many levels.

"Stop that." Deacon's voice was velvety when he whispered this close.

"Stop what?"

"Thinking yourself in circles. When you get quiet, I know you're thinking too much."

I shrug and sit up. "All that time wandering alone does that to you."

"Well, you're not alone anymore. Give yourself a break, Boss. You're a great Mom, and you did more for both our Shaun and that delinquent running the Institute than any other parent could even dream of being capable of accomplishing."

I smile at the sound of that lovely word. "Our?"

Sitting up and facing away from him, he can't see my smile, and reads into my response wrong. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by that. I-"

"No!" I turn and melt back onto my side, almost underneath him. I want him to see my face, so he knows I'm not upset. "It's fine. A lot of people have grown to love him, Deacon. That makes me happy. Maybe we can give Shaun...young Shaun the life I couldn't give my first son." I can't bring myself to say _real_ , because it breaks my heart to ever think of the synth child as a puppet, a pile of intricately placed circuits, as if he were Pinocchio, had Father - the real boy. "You love him, and it makes me love you for that."

He doesn't rear back in panic a my statement. Deacon is too cool for that. He likes to pretend like he doesn't have emotions. But he does lift a hand, and brush a lock of hair from my forehead, trailing softly down my temple to my jawline. His breath brushes against my face as he speaks. "Get some sleep, Boss. We have a lot of walking to do tomorrow." He leans down, and places a kiss on my forehead. He doesn't return to his sleeping bag, but nestles into my side, where he stays for the rest of the night. His warmth permeates me, and the slow rhythm of his breathing anchors me. This Wasteland isn't too bad, not with the people I have in it. He's right. I'm not alone anymore.


End file.
